


north

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2012-2013 NHL Season, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Relationship Study, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29642820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: When it came to Patrick, Jonny used to feel like a dog chasing its tail.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 29
Kudos: 125





	north

Patrick’s clenching his jaw. Jonny can see it out of the corner of his eye—a quick twitch and release, over and over, as jerky as the flexing of his knuckles against the steering wheel. The anger coming off him is thick and quiet, and it makes Jonny quiet too. 

He could turn on the radio, maybe. Patrick had looked at him that morning with a bold brow and a slick smirk, letting it curl at the corners in a silent dare as he inched up the knob on that Top 40’s shit he likes to drum his fingers along to when they’re sitting in traffic. 

Jonny had rolled his eyes and let out a short huff, but he remembers what came hot on its heels—the helpless stretch of the smile splitting his face, dull pings of pain zinging up the wind-chapped cracks of his lips. How it had birthed a bright blitz of affection that swelled to a nauseous roll, the way he’d snapped his head to the side and dug his fingers into the meat of his thigh from letting it all escape. 

Radio’s probably still on that station. He idly lets the phantom echo of _Hey, I just met you_ loop through his head and pictures it filling up the space between them. But he has the soft clicks of Patrick’s gnashing teeth smarting in his ear, so he keeps his hands to himself and leans back in his seat. 

Leans into the silence, lets the stretch of the road carry them home. Imagines the air sticking to his throat when he swallows, skin prickling with the awareness of the unspoken words hanging above their head like a heavy gray cloud. 

When it came to Patrick, Jonny used to feel like a dog chasing its tail, only with the fucked up two-for-one special of self-awareness and the sick misery that came attached. Then one day, Patrick dipped his thumb into the hollow of Jonny’s throat and caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and Jonny found himself frozen, tail in mouth and not a single clue what to do with it. 

Seabs likes to shake his head and whistle low and tell Jonny he’s like a dog with a bone, and that works too. He just shrugs back, because it's not like he's wrong. Jonny never thought he’d get to have this—a space for his shirts in Patrick’s closet, Patrick’s obnoxious shoes scattered around his apartment, permission for his fingers to bump down Patrick’s spine to the small of his back in the smallest hours of the day. 

People don’t understand the magnitude of that, and that’s okay. He doesn’t either. Not fully. 

Jonny follows Patrick to the elevator, down the hallway with the ugly carpet. Into his furnace-hot apartment and then to the bed that's his in theory but theirs in practice, heart thudding to the rhythm of Patrick’s prickly strides the whole way. 

He feels the pulse of it punch through to his ears, so swollen and tight in his chest that he has a flitting vision on the back end of a blink where it bursts straight through, cartoon-style. A sliver of a second and then it's gone, a bare whisper of an idea, sorry and silly and somehow seared behind his lids anyway. 

His eyes open to the long lines of Patrick's strong body, stock-still and facing away from him. He shivers at the silence and shivers harder at the thought of breaking it, finally unsticking his jaw so he can wet his mouth and do it anyway. 

"We gonna talk about it?" he murmurs, pushing past the peach-pit of nerves lodging in his throat and scraping out the words. He directs them at the nape of Patrick's neck, right where the pale skin meets the wonky thatch of curls, eyes shifting and snagging on the sudden ripple of Patrick's shoulders and sticking to the tense coil of his upper back when they settle. 

"What's there to talk about?" It rumbles out deep, too smooth and easy and even to be anything but practiced. 

"Patrick—" 

The mattress dips and creaks, so sudden it makes him suck in a startled breath. On the next blink, he's staring into somber blue eyes and burning on the one after that, a feather-light swipe of callused fingers across his jaw flushing his skin with dizzy heat harder and faster than it has any rhyme, reason, or right to. 

"What's there to talk about?" Patrick repeats, soft and raw and alien to the easy slide of the previous iteration, like touching Jonny’s skin cracked him right open and wrenched the words from a place he'd kept carefully buried and never meant for anyone to find. 

Jonny can't speak. 

"You gonna lecture me, Jonny?" Patrick's voice dips low and so do his fingers, trailing their way down Jonny’s throat—slow, delicate little pets like his Adam's Apple is a spooked animal that needs to be gentled. 

Jonny swallows and it's so dry he chafes inside, feeling Patricks fingers shift along with the clench and release of the movement. He could. Should, even. It plays in technicolor—the swerve and collision, the woozy way the world went off-kilter for a few moments, trying to blink away the murk and haze and returning to full clarity just in time to catch the snarl twisting Patrick's face.

The dull horror of seeing Patrick skate up with intent, chin jutting sharply at a guy that had heaps of inches and pounds on him, dropping his gloves and pulling back his fist like a bowstring gathering maximum possible tension. 

By the time the linesmen peeled Patrick off of Carmouche, the guy was curled in a ball on the ice with his arms wrapped around his middle, low groans escaping his mouth.

It was stupid. It was _dangerous_. That's not your goddamn job, Kaner, what the fuck were you thinking? He could. But Patrick knows that, has always been happy to leave the fists and fights to the other guys while he sticks to cracking whip-smart chirps and dancing away with a smirk on his face. 

Except tonight.

He doesn’t want to lecture Patrick. He wants to know—

“Why?” 

Jonny used to think Patrick was easier with his emotions than he was. And on the surface, he is—cries and laughs at the drop of a dime and with equal lack of shame because he’s sure of himself in an uncomplicated way that Jonny could never be. 

Then Jonny went and drove himself into a support beam, and Patrick went still. It scared Jonny cold to the bone. 

He realized that Patrick isn’t easy at all. 

Jonny knows him better than almost anyone, because Patrick lets him. But he doesn’t show Jonny everything. Jonny knows his quick-spark anger—he’s always been good at starting it, and eventually he got good at snuffing it out, too. 

But he has no point of reference for that freezing fury he’d seen on Patrick's face, deep and hard and vibrating through his body hours later. 

Patrick doesn’t answer with words, so Jonny scans over the defiant slant of his mouth, the proud planes of his face, the shadows pooling in the creases between. 

Drags up to meet his eyes, so soft in contrast to his hard body and his hard anger and stops short, breath knocking clean out of his chest and rabbiting violently when it crams back in. 

Watches Patrick watch him, sees the hardness seep out of Patrick’s face as he does, swirling away like water down a drain until all there’s left is—

“ _Jonny_ ,” squeezed out slow and almost painful, barely a half-step above a whisper but cutting through Jonny’s mind like a shock of cold wind. It's paired with the nudge of a nose against his, a skipping bump that smooths out into a deliberate nuzzle. "Jonny," Patrick says again on a sigh, spilling it against Jonny’s lips like he's trying to breathe the full weight of the word right into him.

Jonny feels the gasp leave more than he hears it, registers the harshed out breath and the startled-quick-part of his mouth and then the hot press of Patrick's lips slotting in the newly-opened space, trapping the plumpest part of Jonny’s bottom lip between his. It’s a perfect fit, because of course it is—how could it not be when it’s Patrick? 

Patrick nibbles at the swell, slow, lazy. Kisses all sticky-thick and lingering like he has all the time in the world. His hands tell a different story altogether, flying fast and with the barest hint of a tremble, like he’s trying his hardest to keep them steady and comes just shy of succeeding. They pluck at Jonny’s shirt, his boxers, socks, one article after another until he and Jonny are mouth-to-mouth, skin-to-skin. 

“ _Please_ ,” Jonny groans, every part of him straining up towards Patrick—greedy mouth, greedy chest, greedy cock, furiously competing for Patrick’s touch. Patrick shoots him a quickfire smirk and nudges a finger at Jonny’s sternum until he _whumps_ back onto the bed with a bounce, exhale popping out of his mouth from the flat smack. 

Patrick drapes himself on top and Jonny blinks up, and Patrick gazes down. He smiles and swoops low to tag the tip of Jonny’s nose with his. “Bambi eyes,” he murmurs, playful and achingly tender at once, bypassing begging mouth, cock, chest to duck down and dot up Jonny’s throat with a patchwork of slow sucks and soft scrapes, coaxing sounds out of him he'd never make for anyone else. 

The thought makes his stomach a mess of squirms. 

Patrick’s tongue wanders down to lap at the dip of a collarbone, laying a low, wrecked, “ _spread for me_ ” in the spit-glossed hollow. It shoots straight to Jonny’s balls and then further back, greeted with a hungry clench when it reaches its final destination. 

“Fuck,” Jonny groans, tipping his head back to hide the heat punching through his cheeks, but his legs split open on the same beat, cock twitching between them and hole aching with the promise of what’s to come. 

“More,” Patrick encourages, running a feverish knuckle up-and-down the soft-hot crease of Jonny’s thigh. He flips it on a downstroke, knuckle becoming the pad of a single finger, inching down the same path. “Wanna see you.” 

His voice cracks at the corners as he keeps up the drag, and Jonny feels it like a brand when he runs it deliberately past the previous points of return, creeping _down-down-down_ all the way until the edge of his nail glances against the sensitive skin of Jonny’s sac. 

Jonny jerks at the dull sting, can’t help but make a noise—of pleasure or pain, he doesn’t know—and Patrick swallows it with a soothing kiss, ducking down to feather another onto the peak of Jonny’s throat. 

He adds a quick smattering of words while he’s there, lips brushing lightly across. They’re pitched too low for Jonny to make out individually, but the syrupy-sweet tone carries up and stutters the beat of his heart. 

Patrick pulls back, cupping his tough palms against the peach-soft skin of Jonny’s inner thighs. He coaxes them apart further with gentle but firm pressure, reaching the angle where Jonny can feel the pull and stopping just when it’s starting to edge into a burn. It’s the best kind of stretch, the one that Jonny chases every time he works his muscles but doesn’t always get. 

Only Patrick can do that. 

Patrick smiles like he knows exactly what Jonny’s thinking, sliding fast down the bed to palm heavy-hot over Jonny’s ass before eagerly spreading it open. There’s a quick suck of breath and a muttered “ _Christ, look at you,”_ that makes Jonny’s hips jerk up. Patrick’s hands chase them down, circling thumbs against each hip bone before dipping back in between Jonny’s cheeks. 

“Downright pretty, Jonny,” Patrick says, voice soft with awe as he skims a finger up the plump heft of Jonny’s taint to the source of his admiration, rubbing over the furl in a dirty, skipping drag. “Never seen anything like it.”

“ _Fuck,_ Patrick,” Jonny chokes out wildly. “You—”

His words get jumbled and stuck and disappear entirely when Patrick deliberately meets his gaze and rests the pad of his thumb against Jonny’s rim. He makes sure Jonny’s watching and then curls it in, just a little. “Can tell it’s going to be a perfect fit,” he says, criminally soft. 

A ragged gasp tears out of Jonny’s chest, heat pricking behind his eyes, building pressure there, pressure _everywhere_ , too much and tingling through him in a whirlwind of pink arousal and pinker embarrassment and beneath it all a purring delight that’s basking under this, living for it. 

It’s the delight that wins out, makes Jonny tilt his hips up into Patrick’s touch and strain his legs wider still, shameless and a smidge shameful about _that_ , but mostly eager—eager for Patrick’s fingers, his mouth, his cock—eager for whatever Patrick will give him. 

Jonny’s panting by the time Patrick finally finishes teasing him open, cock dripping and rosy-red against his abs. His bottom lip is sore from the hard bite of his teeth, diligently trying to guard the world against his breathy moans. 

“Come on,” Jonny whimpers as Patrick holds his cock in hand, rubbing the head against Jonny’s slicked up entrance and watching with glazed eyes and pink cheeks as Jonny’s hole fruitlessly tries its hardest to lure him in further. “ _Please_.” Patrick just scrapes his teeth over his lip and lingers for a few moments more, like he’s having a hard time looking away. 

“I’m the only one who gets to have this little hole,” he says, sudden and slow-soft, blinking hard like it’s a revelation. His cock’s still nudging up in a dirty tease, wonder breaking across his face as his eyes snap up to focus on Jonny’s. “This is the only cock it’ll get loose for.” 

He twitches his hips forward with barely-there pressure and hisses through his teeth at how hungrily Jonny’s hole accepts the extra press of dick, reaching down to tug the rim open further still. His face shifts into something serious as he looks up. “This is the only cock that gets to fuck it open,” he says evenly, like he’s stating a fact as boring and widely know as _the sky is blue._

Jonny registers the flush of his skin before anything else. It’s gone red-hot, cheek-tops scalding and numb at the same time. It takes a few more seconds for him to parse the light tremors wracking his body and trace them down to a bud of shyness welling in his stomach. Its existence shocks him, because he didn’t know it was _possible_ for him to be shy in front of Patrick, who knew him mind, body, and soul. 

Patrick’s fingers cage his jaw, tweaking it to an angle that aligns his eyes with Patrick’s before releasing it and asking “Isn’t that right, Jonny?” The tips of Jonny’s ears blush up at the contrast between the filth of the words and the lilt of the tone, steeped in a sweetness that’s reflected in the hopeful cast of Patrick’s face. “Tell me,” Patrick says, pleading instead of commanding. His lashes flutter nervously, and his fingers dart to the side of his neck, scratching absently at the skin there. 

Jonny’s chest grows tender in the space of a second, the too-tight feeling blooming back up and straining against it. Joy and arousal spring up beside the bud of shyness, and pride sprouts around them all. “Yeah, Peeks,” Jonny says roughly, voice heavy with the weight of things he can't begin to name.

It’s Patrick’s turn to be shy, mouth tilting up in a bashful smile and going pink across the bridge of his nose as he finally fucks in, filling Jonny up in a single, deep thrust that makes his spine go tight and forces a solitary punched-out _uh_ from his throat. 

Patrick pumps his hips in slow rolls, sending fractured waves of heat through Jonny’s body, pleasure splintering through when Patrick grazes him just right, each push-pull drawing low moans out of Jonny’s chest. 

It’s like the arousal diffuses across the whole length of him, from the tip of his head down to the clench of his toes, the slow build of it planting roots of tension at the base of Jonny’s spine that creep higher with every steady stroke in. 

“This is the only dick you’ll ever take,” Patrick says as he fucks in-out-in-out, abs rippling from the flex, voice ragged from the strain of his desire. “The only cock you’ll clench down on, the only one you’ll cling to. It’s gonna pound you open again, and again, and again,” he whispers harshly, using deliberate, controlled thrusts to punctuate his words along with his voice. 

“ _Yeah,_ ” Jonny whines out, hole spasmsming hard in response, like his body’s trying to echo Patrick’s promise back at him. It makes Patrick’s hips stutter and head drop low, shudder rippling across the line of his shoulders before he bites down on his lip and starts up a new, harder pump of the hips. 

Jonny arches into it with an appreciative sigh, suddenly blisteringly aware of Patrick’s bitten off gasps on every stroke in, the smaller, breathy grunts on each withdrawal, the heat rising off of his skin, the smell of him. 

“You feel good,” Jonny says quietly, eyes scanning over the red flush between Patrick’s scrunched brows, the flex and release of his biceps as he holds himself over Jonny, landing on the sweat shimmering across his Cupid’s bow.

Jonny reaches out absently to fit his finger in the dip and finds it wandering down towards the seam of Patrick’s lips, and then it’s being enveloped in soft, wet heat as Patrick takes it into his mouth. Jonny looks up and watches Patrick smirk around his finger, hollowing his cheeks and sucking it in, bobbing his head in a coy up-down that matches the exact pace of the slick slide of his cock in-and-out of Jonny’s hole. Jonny mutters a quick " _shit, Peeks_ ," cock twitching with the sense memory of plunging into that plush mouth. 

Patrick lets Jonny’s finger slip out of his mouth with a pop, blue eyes bright when he licks over his wet, red lips. “You feel perfect,” he says even quieter. 

Jonny’s arms move to wrap around Patrick’s neck and draw him down into a kiss, and it feels like they move out of their own volition, like his body keeps screaming _he’s ours_ in a primal way that has nothing to do with conscious human thought. 

It’s a messy thing, a mish-mash of lips, breath, spit glancing together and then apart, both of them too overwhelmed to coordinate properly despite their thorough knowledge of each other’s mouths.

They’re a wreck of white knuckles, heaving chests, sweat-damp hair, which just makes the way Patrick’s drilling him all the more staggering—his hips still flex in with devastating precision, never once faltering after that initial stutter, giving it to him so goddamn perfectly it makes Jonny’s eyes wet at the corners. 

Patrick bites the inside of his cheek and ducks down to look at the place his cock is entering Jonny’s body, letting out a pained exhale. 

“God, you’re—” He cuts off, fingers wandering down to where they’re joined, tracing the stretch of Jonny’s rim around the girth of his shaft like he has to feel it to believe it. “Your hole’s puffed up from taking my cock,” he rasps, pupils blown out wide in shock, and Jonny feels his throat go peach-pit sore again. 

“Wish I could see,” Jonny whispers and means it, the want barreling inside him so expansive that it bullies the air straight out of his lungs. The slick sounds and stretch of his rim and perfect punch of Patrick's cock coalesce into a scorching flash of a vision, but Jonny knows it pales in comparison to the real thing. Patrick shuts his eyes tight and gives a jerky nod like he’s genuinely sorry that Jonny can’t.

“I’ll look real good for you,” he says eventually, and Jonny wonders what it says about them that Patrick means it as an earnest solution and that Jonny accepts it as such. Patrick tilts his chin down, looking his fill and then some, and Jonny’s stomach breaks out in butterflies like he’s a teenager.

“Gorgeous,” Patrick says absent-mindedly, petting his thumb against Jonny’s rim like he’s not talking to Jonny at all, and it makes pinpricks of sweat break out on the back of his neck, dry-heat coat the back of his throat. “Would look even prettier taking my load,” Patrick slides out in a voice that could be mistaken for casual if it weren’t for the slight slant into suggestiveness and the strategically-timed suddenness of his words. 

It creates the intended effect, dropping into Jonny’s consciousness like a bomb and setting off an embarrassing litany of desperate “ _fuck, fuck, fuck’s”_ from his mouth, needy frisson lighting him up and making him rock back hard on Patrick’s dick with wanton grinds of the hips, unapologetically chasing the rub of Patrick’s cock against his prostate. 

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick murmurs approvingly, lighting a hot fire in Jonny’s belly before he drags Jonny onto his cock so hard and fast he chokes on the sudden stab of its fat split. “Want me to cream up your little hole?” Patrick asks softly, the points of contact where his fingers dig into Jonny’s hips serving as a counterpoint to the pleasure he’s ruthlessly inflicting on him. 

Jonny can hear the series of shocked whimpers billowing out from his mouth, sees the steady drip of his cock, but it doesn’t register, mind and body all-consumed by the thick length rutting inside him.

“I know you want it,” Patrick continues. “I can give it to you. I’m the _only_ one who can give it to you.” Now it really is pure filth, velvet-smooth and nasty in a dark-sweet way in how it wiggles into Jonny’s ears and swoops down his chest and makes a crash landing in his gut, breaking apart and showing up in random parts of his body as spontaneous twinges of heat. “Tell me you want it, Jonny,” Patrick coaxes.

“ _No_.” Jonny gasps it out, hard and fast. Tightens his thighs, digs in his heels, screws up hard and clenches down tight, trying to—

“ _Need_ it _,_ ” he corrects harshly, showing Patrick that every working limb and muscle is an attempt to urge Patrick even deeper into his body. He feels it, thrumming through like a live wire, the need to get Patrick close, to get him inside, to have him—

Patrick’s eyes go hot and then tender. “Gonna do such a good job, baby,” he says, and it’s not just a promise—it’s a fact. So Jonny lets out an anticipatory moan that pitches up steeply when Patrick starts up a vicious pistoning, powering his thrusts with the formidable force of his lower body. 

His balls slap so fast against Jonny’s ass that each smack of the skin cracks like a clap, cockhead drumming a relentless beat against Jonny’s prostate that has Jonny’s head lolling back and mouth falling open on a keen. 

Patrick takes a shuddering breath and skates his fingers over Jonny’s stretched out rim one last time. “It’s gonna be dripping when I’m done with it,” he murmurs. "Messy with my come like it should be, because it's _mine_." 

"Yeah," Jonny whines out before Patrick can say _isn't that right, Jonny?_ “All yours, always been yours.” The words tumble from his chest up to his tongue, burning the path raw, Patrick’s dick pushing them out of his mouth with each strike inside. “Never wanted anyone else inside me, never will. It'll always be ready for you, you can use it whenever you want it, because—

"It's mine," Pats cuts in, eyes glossed bright and voice thick, like there’s a bottleneck of unspoken words stuck at the back of his throat, drilling Jonny so deep he thinks he’ll feel the evidence of this night forever. 

“Yeah,” Jonny chokes out, head jerking up-down in a frenetic nod because Patrick’s cock is rendering him legitimately speechless. His balls draw up tight, getting that good, tell-tale ache, and it’s almost, almost, right there, right _there_ —

Patrick stops moving. 

Jonny lets out a frustrated groan, hips chasing after the hard hit of Patrick's dick and growing petulant when they can't find it. "Patrick, what—" He looks up, ready to voice his displeasure, but the way Patrick’s looking at him blitzes it clean away, leaving a nervous flutter in its wake. 

Patrick's scanning all over. Not a general sweep—Jonny can see his eyes shift and pause each second, like he's cataloging every individual point that makes up Jonny’s face, lips lifting at the corners every time he moves his eyes like what he sees makes him so happy that he can’t help himself. “It’s _mine_ ,” Patrick says, hips finally thrusting his cock back into the slide of Jonny’s hole, drawing out the drag."All mine, always been mine. Never wanted to be inside anybody else, never will." 

His palm rests on Jonny’s jaw, thumb sweeping up and down his cheekbone as he makes Jonny feel every inch of him. “Mine because _you’re_ mine,” he says, voice skipping out unevenly, landing on something unbearably tender. 

“Patrick,” Jonny says brokenly, shuddering his way to a sob as every part of him clenches up tight, hole to abs to thighs to chest to the heart thudding furiously underneath. 

“Mine to fuck.”

_Patrick pushing into him for the first time, achingly slow. A hand petting soothingly at Jonny’s hip, blue eyes looking down at him in worry. “Am I hurting you?” Sweat beading at the temples and voice strained from the effort of not thrusting hard into the tight heat. Jonny smiles up, squeezes Patrick’s waist. “No, Peeks. You’re not hurting me.”_

“Mine to fill.”

_Patrick’s come dripping out of him while Jonny sits red-faced on the couch, Sharpy prattling on beside him. Patrick laughing helplessly hours later while Jonny fumed. “I didn’t know he was going to show up!” Voice dipping low, smirking, unapologetic. “I liked knowing it, that you were sitting there full of me.” Jonny trying to scowl as Patrick skimmed a knuckle over the cleft of his ass over his pants, refusing to admit that he did too. Doesn’t matter—Patrick knows it anyway._

“Mine to care for.” 

_Patrick’s soft chatter on the phone, parting through the dark and the haze. Every single day._

Patrick lowers himself, covering Jonny completely, angling in so deep that Jonny can hardly believe there's space for him in his body. He tap-taps on Jonny’s collarbone until Jonny’s meets his eyes, and then Jonny’s burning. 

Patrick moves, impossibly closer. Plants his lips against the side of Jonny’s head like he’s laying a claim. 

Right on the spot Carmouche aimed to lay the hit. 

“Mine to love,” he says quietly, pressing a lingering kiss there.

_Patrick skating up with intent, chin jutting sharply at a guy that had heaps of inches and pounds on him, dropping his gloves and pulling back his fist like a bowstring gathering maximum possible tension._

Jonny comes, teeth digging into Patrick's bicep and heart whispering _I am I am I am._

The air’s thick, after. Normally stuffy apartment flushed further with the the brutal heat of a good fuck and a quiet charge trapped in the space between their bodies. 

A sweltering swell that clogs up Jonny’s lungs and catches in his throat as he watches Patrick watch him, feels Patrick feel him, fingertips skittering delicately across Jonny’s forehead and swallowing like the air is sticking to his throat. 

“He didn’t get me, Peeks _,”_ slips out small when the pale expanse of Patrick’s smooth brow bunches up in a crease. Patrick’s fingers still and fold back in towards his palm, digging in hard. The crease stays firmly in place, soft _huh_ of Patrick’s exhale ghosting across Jonny’s face. 

“I know,” Patrick says back unsteadily, chewing on his lip in a hard gnaw he’d broken years ago. Jonny remembers the white-faced shock and the flinching bite of the _you selfish fuck_ that ended in a warm slide of fingers at his jaw, a cracked-raw voice scraping out a _you stupid fuck,_ a trembling kiss planted onto Jonny’s temple. The blurred fuzz trapped underneath it and the fear that it would never go away. 

Jonny scoots in close, nosing from Patrick’s breastbone up his throat and capturing his fingers in a gentle tug that leads to Jonny’s lips. He waits until Patrick gazes down at him, the blue phasing in-and-out with heavy-lidded blinks. He brushes his lips carefully over every bruised knuckle, a _thank you_ an _I’m sorry_ an _I’m yours_ and a _you’re mine_ all at once. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Jonny says, as steady as he can. A pause, and then Patrick’s nose bumping against his, a quiet snort in his ear that ends on a sigh tipped in exasperation. Patrick slides back to eye-level. 

“I’m always going to worry about you, idiot,” he says, poking a finger between Jonny’s brows. “Just like how you’re always going to worry about me. Which is why I let you take care of me, even though you're probably gonna mother-hen me to my grave one day.” He grins wide at the downward tug of Jonny’s lips and presses a thumb at the corners to lift it back up, planting a quick peck right at the bow. 

And then the humor dries up until his face is thin and weary. “It’s why I take care of you, whether you let me or not,” he says, the tone of it throbbing an ache deep into Jonny’s heart, and he can tell Patrick is remembering too. “Two-way street, Tazer. That’s how this thing works,” Patrick continues, voice hard—not with anger but with desperation, and Jonny thinks of how Patrick went still. 

How that stillness traveled across the ocean and made itself known in long stretches of breaths crackling across the phone line, stilting up the words that used to flow so easily between them. Thinks that maybe this was what was lying beneath it, even though he hadn’t understood that at the time. 

He watches Patrick try to muster up a grin to crack the hard shell of his face. “Soppy as shit, I know. But what to do—I'm stuck with your dork-ass, and you're stuck with mine.” His mouth shuts tight and then opens for a few moments. Shuts abruptly again, and he tucks his chin to his chest, soft curls falling forward. His lashes flutter nervously, and his fingers dart to the side of his neck, scratching absently at the skin there. 

Jonny’s chest grows tender in the space of a second, the too-tight feeling blooming back up and straining against it. Behind his lids, the cartoon heart bursts clean through. 

Jonny works a knuckle under Patrick’s chin and tilts it up until he’s staring into somber blue eyes. “That’s how this works,” he says, and it’s a promise that Jonny’s going to do everything in his power to make a fact. He watches Patrick watch him, the uncertainty seeping out of his face as he does, swirling away like water down a drain until all there’s left is—

“Jonny,” murmured out slow and sweet, barely a half-step above a whisper and slotting straight into Jonny’s heart like it belongs there—because it does. Because Patrick does, more than anyone or anything. 

They lie forehead-to-forehead, mouth-to-mouth, breathing in the thick air and the charge between them, breathing out into each other.

“Seabs says I’m like a dog with a bone with you,” Jonny says abruptly, not sure if he’s apologizing or not. He’s not sorry about it, is the thing. But maybe he should be. He warily watches Patrick’s eyes flash wide, fingers pausing where they were tracing down Jonny’s throat. 

But Patrick just laughs, bright and warm. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and Jonny—

Jonny thinks he gets it. 

“Seabs is probably right,” Patrick says, grinning at whatever Jonny’s face is doing. “But lucky for you, I kind of like you slobbering all over me.” 

Jonny feels his nose scrunch up, slaps the back of his hand lightly against Patrick’s chest. “That’s gross, Kaner,” he says, aiming for appalled but missing by about a mile. 

“Hey it’s _your_ gross slobber,” he points out with the waggle of a brow. His face softens out, head ducking down and lip between his teeth when it comes back up. "You wanna know what Sharpy said about me?” 

Jonny hums an affirmative, twisting a finger around a slippery blonde lock. Patrick darts a glance up from under his lashes, lips twitching briefly. He fixes his gaze on the ceiling, clears his throat. “Said that I always just kind of—orient myself, towards you? When we’re in the same room. No matter how far you are from me. I don’t know.” He gives his head a little shake, slants a grin and continues. 

“To be fair, he was wasted. Said it was some ‘ _weird fucking shit, Peekabo’._ ” He takes a break to huff out a laugh at his own Sharpy impression. And then his face gets a small smile, bud of shyness welling in the curve of it.

He licks his lips and takes a breath. “Said if I was a compass, you’d be my north,” he says, voice skipping out unevenly, landing on something unbearably tender. “Then threw up in the bar bathroom about two minutes later, but,” he shrugs. Looks up at Jonny with soft blue eyes. “I think about it a lot,” he admits quietly. 

Jonny scans over the sweet slant of his mouth, the beautiful planes of his face, the shadows pooling in the creases between. Drags back up to meet his eyes, soft. So, so, soft. Brings his fingers to idle at the nape of Patrick's neck, right where the pale skin meets the wonky thatch of curls. 

Patrick’s thumb dips into the hollow of Jonny’s throat, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, and Jonny takes the tail in his mouth and lets it go. 

**Author's Note:**

> Note about the story: Carmouche, the hit, and the fight are all fictional. 
> 
> I've been SUPER stuck with my writing for the last two months. 4 days ago, I got hit with the idea for a very simple Possessive!Patrick PWP. I decided to start writing it (despite having 8148197419 WIPs 😬), and it turned into this. This was really rewarding to write--especially after such a dry spell--and I hope you guys enjoy! ❤️ 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://tarcanza.tumblr.com/) for updates and also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tarcanza). Come say hi!


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